The Chosen (25 page)

“Damn you, woman! This isn't about you. You're not the one who's facing their mortality. You're not the one who survived hell. You're nothing. Nothing!” he screamed. “Why can't anybody understand? Don't they see the danger I'm in? Doesn't anyone care for my immortal soul?”

He grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby crate and flung it against a wall. It cracked and splattered as he stomped out the door, slamming it fiercely behind him as he went.

The sound echoed inside the old warehouse, sending pigeons flying and rats scurrying. It also set off a series of howls and shouts from the men down the way. The disappointment of this mass mutiny swept over him again, and he started yelling back, telling them all to shut up and pray. But they never heard him above the sounds of their own wails.

Enraged, he started running toward the old blast furnace, screaming as he went. When he got there, he picked up a piece of pipe and began hammering on the outside of the furnace, beating on it like a drum. The sound within was deafening and painful—so much so that all ten of the men went to the floor with their hands on their ears, begging for mercy.

Jay threw the pipe as far as he could throw it, then staggered toward the room where his Judas was waiting. He lifted the bar he'd put on the door, then opened it wide. Judas was sitting on the floor on the far side of the room. When they saw each other, to Jay's dismay, Judas added to the mutiny by cursing him in combinations of words he'd never heard before.

Jay stared. He couldn't help it. The man was huge—his biceps so enormous that the sleeves of his T-shirt had been ripped to accommodate the size—and his thighs were massive, the circumference of small trees. It was daunting to think of being hated by that much humanity. He wanted to cry, but it would have done no good. He didn't understand it. It should have been beautiful-living as Jesus had lived. Instead, it was becoming a nightmare.

“Let me loose, you crazy bastard! You aren't getting anything from me. If you lay a hand on me, I'll kill you!” Jude shouted.

“You don't understand,” Jay mumbled. “You're in no danger from me. You are my disciple…my Judas.”

“I'm not your anything,” Jude snapped, then yanked at the chains that bound her.

The rattle of the links echoed from one side of Jay's skull to the other. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and as he did, his gaze shifted from Judas's thighs to the dark puddle in which he was sitting. At first he thought it was only urine, but it didn't look right. Frowning, he stepped into the room for a closer look, then frowned as he pointed.

“What's wrong with you?”

Jude laughed. It was the ultimate humiliation for someone who'd been born into the wrong body.

“I got my period, that's what, and I hope you're happy. This is damn humiliating. Is that what you wanted? To humiliate me? Well, it worked.”

Jay's lips went slack. He was hearing the words, but they didn't make sense.

“Judas…please…what's wrong? If you've got health issues, we can deal with it.”

“Judas? What the hell planet are you from? That's not my name. My name is Jude, and I told you what's wrong. I deal with this crap every month, whether I like it or not.”

Jay pointed to Jude's hair and face…the tattoos, the body, they were all blatantly male.

“Stop it!” he demanded. “Men don't have periods.”

Jude snorted rudely, then loudly clapped her hands.

“Well, hell, give the stupid bastard a cigar. No one said they did, and I never said I was a man.”

Jay gasped. He covered his ears and turned his back on the sight.

“No, no, no,” Jay whispered. “That's not possible.”

Jude laughed, and the sound raked through Jay's head like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“It's not only possible, it's a damn fact,” she said.

Jay's hands dropped to his sides as he turned slowly, staring intently at every feature on Jude's face and body.

“You're not a man?” he finally asked.

“Fucking hell!” Jude screamed. “Let me go, you stupid creep.”

“Answer me!” Jay shouted. “Are you a man?”

Jude began laughing and screaming all at the same time as she pulled her shirt up, then pulled her jeans to her knees, revealing the dark thatch of hair between her legs.

“Do you see a dick down there anywhere? I don't. That don't mean I wouldn't give my right arm to have been born with one. Now I don't know what kind of a pervert you are, but you better kill me now, because if I ever get free, I will rip your fucking head from your body with my bare hands.”

Jay staggered backward, tripped on the threshold and fell flat on his backside.

“Oh, Lord…Oh, no…I didn't mean…I didn't know…How was I to—”

Jude was screaming again, cursing and pointing and calling Jay names. He scrambled to his feet and slammed the door shut, then dropped the bar, locking her in.

Jude's voice was still evident, but muted. He heard nothing from the blast furnace but the sound of someone puking. Instead of the grand finale he'd planned on, this day had turned into the beginnings of a nightmare.

And he was sick, so sick.

He started the long walk from one end of the warehouse to the other. Although there were several more hours of daylight left, he couldn't bear the truth of his world any longer. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on his bed, close his eyes and never wake up.

But the fear of the hereafter kept him going. He needed God's approval, only it was getting harder and harder to remember how to make that happen.

By the time he got to his room, his clothes were drenched with sweat. He glanced toward the cab, wondered if he'd locked the door to the outside, then decided it didn't matter, staggered into his room and shut the door.

Memories of the clean sheets and comfort of the motel room swept over him as he dropped down onto his cot and stretched out. The bedding here was filthy, and the floor was covered with rat droppings. Once in his life he'd known a far better way of living, but he'd given that up to prove he was worthy of heaven.

Why hadn't it worked?

Why had everything changed?

He didn't understand.

He didn't understand any of it.

The basis of his plan had been flawless.

When had the devil interfered?

 

Mother Mary Theresa's prayers had been answered. Her head was throbbing from the blow that she'd suffered, and she was still the pawn of a madman, but she was no longer afraid. Her strength came from her faith.

But before she'd given her life to God, she'd been a girl from the Bronx. And that girl would not have thrown up her hands and quit. Before this, her age had been nothing to her but a number, but now she needed more than strength of mind to get out of this mess.

So she'd walked the room, checking corners, gauging the height of the single window and looking for something to use as a weapon. She knew God had bade His followers to turn the other cheek, but she was certain He hadn't meant for them to give up life without a fight.

As time wore on, she found nothing that would help her. Even worse, she was getting shaky and weak, and her fever was up.

She'd already found the portable toilet, as well as some bottled water and crackers. She didn't know what this man's intentions were, but it was obvious he'd been planning this for some time. When her foray turned up nothing but useless garbage and dirt, she stumbled back to the cot and then collapsed.

She thought she heard screaming and shouting in the distance but knew that whatever was happening, it was out of her hands. With a muffled groan, she rolled over onto her side and passed out.

 

Tom Gerlich wasn't a man who panicked easily, but he was getting there. One of the disciples was dead. He knew it for certain. It had happened sometime after sundown, but he'd chosen not to voice his fears to the others. He'd heard more than one death rattle during his years in Vietnam. Death had its own presence. Tom knew it might seem strange to some people, but he always knew when a soul left the body. To him, there was a sense of emptiness that was impossible to explain.

And there were the rats. They were braver now. With no one to chase them back, they were taking advantage of the large smorgasbord of body that had suddenly become available. He thought about waking the others. If they made enough noise and rattled enough chains, it might keep the rats at bay.

But then he reminded himself that it no longer mattered. Whoever was dead was the lucky one. He had escaped.

C
aptain Borger had been in the hot seat with the mayor ever since the investigation into Bart Scofield's murder had stalled. No one was more excited about learning the identity of the man they suspected of the crime than Borger, but they still had one big problem. They didn't know where to find him.

 

January hadn't heard a thing from Ben all night. She'd fallen asleep by the phone and was horrified when she woke to find out the entire night had passed in silence. She rolled out of bed and was reaching for the receiver when it finally rang.

“Hello?”

“It's me,” Ben said. “Did I wake you?”

“No. I just woke up. Why didn't you call? Have you found out anything about Carpenter?”

“He has a rap sheet.”

“For what?”

Ben sighed. He'd been up all night running down leads that had gone nowhere. He was tired and pissed that they still didn't know where to find him.

“He has a sealed juvenile record. Later, a couple of stints in the pen for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. Arrested for running a prostitution ring. Arrested for arson, but no convictions, and the list goes on. Bottom line, he's capable of anything but maintaining a permanent address.”

“Dear Lord,” January whispered. “Poor little Mother Mary T.”

The images that he'd put in her head made her sick. She would like nothing better than to crawl back into bed and hide until all this was over, but that wasn't going to happen. Instead, she made herself focus on the facts.

“So there's no address for him?”

“Rick and I have been following up on last known addresses and acquaintances all night, and the answer is no. His last known residence was over two years ago. No one who knew him before has seen him since he went into the hospital.”

“Then he really was hospitalized?” January asked.

“Yes, for almost a month, and then another three weeks in the psych ward.”

Psych ward? That didn't sound good.
“Did the records confirm his death and resuscitation?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ben said.

“I'll be darned,” January muttered. “Then it's true about his near-death experience.”

“Maybe, maybe not. That's not something we can prove. What the doctors did note was that he had a complete psychological breakdown after he was revived. That's when they put him in the psych ward. It took three weeks before he calmed down enough to be dismissed.”

“What was making him sick?” January asked.

Ben fumbled through some notes.

“Umm, let me see, I've got it down here somewhere…oh yeah, here it is. Uh…tumor around the pituitary gland. Spread into the brain. Removed most of it. Prognosis was not a cure, just remission.”

January frowned. “Pituitary? Isn't it possible for there to be problems with psychosis when the pituitary is involved?”

“Beats me,” Ben said.

“I'll have to do some checking, but I think I'm right,” she murmured. “And if I am, it would explain his irrational behavior…believing he could control his fate by acting as he's been doing.”

“It's the most we've known about this whole mess so far, but it's not enough to tell us anything about his whereabouts now. We're still at a loss. D.C. is too damn big to pinpoint one outlaw taxicab, and unfortunately, the homeless population makes it all but impossible to find where one particular lost soul might be hiding.”

January stared down at the sunlight shining on her bare feet, absently noting there was a nick in the nail polish on one of her big toes.

She had hoped they would be able to lay their hands on Jay Carpenter as soon as they'd discovered his identity. But given these new facts, she knew that if they had a chance of getting Mother Mary T. back alive, January was going to have to play her trump card.

“I know how to find him,” she said softly.

Ben froze, then shifted the receiver to his other ear.

“What did you say?”

“I said…I know how to find him.”

“How?”

“Are you going in to the office this morning?” she asked.

“Not until after noon,” he said. “I haven't slept in more than thirty-six hours.”

“That's just as well,” January said. “It will give me time to get the rest of the plan in place.”

“What plan? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The plan that will bring Jay Carpenter out of hiding.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Ben asked.

“By using me for bait.”

Ben felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. It took him a few moments to catch his breath, and when he did, he began to argue.

“Bait? Damn it, January, not only no, but
hell
no.”

“We don't have a choice,” she said. “Think of all those men who've disappeared. Think of that little nun. You saw her, Ben. You know how fragile she is. She's in her seventies, for God's sake. And remember at the shelter? They said she was ill. What if she's in need of medical attention? What if she dies in some godforsaken place because I was afraid to take a chance? Mother Mary T.'s life may hinge on how quickly we can get to her and you know it.”

“I don't want you to do this,” he said.

January heard the panic in his voice but would not admit to the same kind of fear.

“I don't really want to do it, either, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try.”

“God in heaven,” Ben muttered. There were a few moments of silence; then he asked, “So how do we make this happen?”

“I just received a big-deal award, remember? So don't you think it would be nice if the television station I work for did a personal piece on the award and on my life? I think the public deserves to know a little bit about my background. To our knowledge, Carpenter has yet to find himself a Mary Magdalene.”

“I won't be sleeping now, that's for damn sure,” Ben muttered. “Get your pretty ass down to headquarters ASAP. If you're going to do this, I'm by God going to have you so wired that you won't be able to buy a package of gum without setting off sensors at the White House.”

“Are we talking tracking devices?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay. I can deal with that.”

Ben shuddered. He wished he was with her, not talking on a phone. He needed to hold her.

“You're making me crazy,” he said.

“Don't fight me on this,” January said.

Ben wanted to argue, but if the situation were reversed and it was his friend, he would be just as determined as January was.

“I'm not,” he said. “But you've got to understand. I don't like it one damn bit.”

“Neither do I,” she said, and then glanced at the clock. “I've got to hurry if we want to get this on the noon news as well as in tomorrow's paper. I'll see you at the precinct about twelve. Try to get some sleep.”

“Sleep? Sweetheart, I may never sleep again.”

January sighed. “I'm sorry.”

“Forget it,” Ben muttered. “Just keep yourself breathing and in one piece. That's all I ask. I'll see you later.”

The line went dead in January's ear before she could say more. She'd wanted to say, “I love you,” but that was something she would rather share when they were face-to-face. She hung up the phone long enough to get a clear line, then dialed the station. There was a whole lot that needed to be done before her plan could be set in place, and precious little time to do it. Lives were riding on making this work.

 

Jay's morning started off bad and got worse. He woke up in enough pain that it made him ill. He emptied what was left of a bottle of painkillers into his hand, then popped them in his mouth and chewed. The dry, acidic chunks turned to a sour-tasting powder on his tongue as he reached for his clothes.

His nose wrinkled as he began to put them on. There was nothing he would have liked better than a hot bath and clean clothes, maybe some eggs and bacon, with biscuits and gravy. As soon as he saw to the others' food and water, he might just head for his favorite diner and treat himself.

He stumbled to the portable toilet outside his room and held his breath as he relieved himself, thankful he would soon have no more need of these earthly props.

As soon as he was finished, he went back into his room, gathered what was left of the groceries into one sack and started toward the other end of the building.

There was a prayer on his lips and a smile on his face as he entered the blast furnace, but his good feelings swiftly changed.

One of the men had hanged himself. He'd taken one of the chains fastened to his wrist and wrapped it around his neck, then sat down, letting his own body weight do the rest. And it appeared that the rats had been at him all night. In places the flesh on his face had been eaten all the way to the bone.

“Dear God! What happened here?” he cried.

Tom Gerlich looked up but didn't bother to move.

“What the fuck do you think, you crazy bastard? He killed himself, and now he's rotting, and the only question that should be in your head is, who's next?”

Jay was horrified by the sight. Thanks to the rats, he had to count off the names in his head to figure out who had died. When he realized it was Matthew, he dropped the sack of groceries and covered his mouth with his hands to stifle a wail. It was an omen. Matthew had been with him almost from the first, and now he was gone. What did this mean?

“I don't understand,” Jay cried, and lifted his hands toward the sky. “Lord, how could you let this happen?”

Someone laughed. Jay spun toward the sound. It was Simon Peters, and he was pointing at Jay.

“He doesn't understand,” Simon said, speaking to the other captives, who were yelling and cursing and begging to be let free.

But Simon wasn't done. “He doesn't understand. Can you believe that? He doesn't understand.”

He pointed at Jay again. “You lie, you crazy bastard, and the Lord doesn't have anything to do with it. It happened because you chained him up and starved him, and you know it. Look at his wrists, you son of a bitch. The wounds have turned to gangrene, and there are maggots in the sores on his head. He's been out of his mind for weeks, and you don't understand how this could happen? Damn you! Damn you to hell!”

“Not that!” Jay screamed, and began staggering backward. “Not that! Not that! Never that!”

He stumbled over the threshold, then turned and started to run. He could hear Judas screaming to be let out and thought of the blood between his—no, not his, her—the blood between
her
legs. Nothing was going right. It didn't make sense. The plan had been flawless.

His heart was pounding so hard and so fast that he couldn't hear the sound of his own footsteps. The walls of the warehouse appeared to be moving in and out like bellows. When he looked toward the roof, the pigeons roosting overhead morphed into demons, staring down at him with smiling faces.

He screamed, then put his hands over his eyes. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

He sank to his knees with his arms over his head, expecting to be devoured at any moment. But nothing happened. When he looked again and there was nothing there, he wailed. Not even the pigeons he'd imagined before.

His head hurt. It hurt so much these days. Nearly all the time. He needed quiet. He needed to pray. He needed to figure out what he'd done wrong, but the dull pain at the back of his neck was ballooning. By the time he reached his cab, his legs were refusing to work properly and his right arm had gone numb. He managed to get inside before he collapsed. Just as he rolled over onto his back in the front seat, his body began to convulse. The last thing he remembered was seeing a tear in the head liner and smelling feces.

 

January walked into the precinct wearing a pair of white slacks, a yellow camisole and a yellow-and-white waist-length jacket. Her hair was loose and her heels were high. Her red lipstick said, “Look at me,” and at the same time, the jut to her chin was a warning to the faint of heart to stay back.

Ben looked up when he heard a wolf whistle from the other side of the room. Then he saw January coming toward him and understood. However, it didn't stop him from glaring at the file clerk who'd dared to whistle, which earned a grin from the clerk in return. Before Ben could comment, January was at his side.

“I'm here,” she said.

He eyed her appreciatively, then frowned.

“You sure are,” he said. “I don't know about this outfit, though, honey. It's a little drab. Don't you think you could have dolled up just a little bit more…like, uh, oh…I don't know…maybe stripping butt-naked and doing a Lady Godiva down Pennsylvania Avenue?”